Parents in my suicide support group had shared stories of when they encountered an “out of the blue” emotional breakdown, usually triggered by something: a song they heard, a story someone shared, a place they drove past.  I recently encountered one.  If you ever face someone in one, I want you to know. It was nothing you did.  They just happen.

My daughter and I recently went on an escape trip to visit with cousins at a lake house.  My husband was not able to join us, but he would have loved it because there was lots of golf and boating.  I do not play golf, but he does.  And there was dancing.  Dancing in the kitchen while cooking dinner and on the boat with the sun setting and the moon rising.  My son would have loved this.  We honored him by dancing. 

 It was the first time I remember laughing since my son died.  It was a wonderful escape; I love the cousins all dearly.  My daughter is so insightful.  She told me she enjoys them because they do not shy away from the tough conversations.  They share, they ask, they listen, they cry, they love.  They are family.  We are so lucky. 

One evening they were sharing campfire stories.  My cousins shared a serious story that happened a couple of years ago to them.  They can laugh about it now, so the tale included funny undertones that made it enjoyable to hear.  But it was a serious story involving a rattlesnake, embedded cactus needles, injured body parts, and hospitalization.  The story deserved attention.  The date it occurred was March 9.  They remembered the date well enough to share it in the story.  

I froze, my mind stopped.  I could not focus anymore on the story.  I was in a tunnel.  I thought about stopping the story and saying, “That is the day my son died.”  I could not speak.  As they went on telling the story, I thought, “No, this story deserves to be told.  My sharing, ‘This is the month and day my son died,’ would ruin it.”  I then had to decide what to do.  I could not speak, I could not listen, I could not move.  

When I forced my mind out of the tunnel, I got up.   As I was walking out to escape, I saw my daughter, conversing with someone nearby.  I listened in on her conversation long enough to gain composure so I could return to the group, say good night, leave politely, and avoid spoiling the mood of the evening.  

I do not expect everyone I encounter to know the month and the date of the day my son died.  After all, he is my son, not theirs.  But if you do want to know, he died March 9, 2018.  We do not know the time.  You would think over time, I would only remember his birthday, but I can remember the date my mom died before I remember her birthday, and that was thirty years ago.